


Today the Hunt, Tomorrow the Feast

by musamihi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Poe Dameron (Comics)
Genre: Banter, Biting, Captivity, Dehydration, Handcuffs, Interrogation, Jakku, Kissing, M/M, Stormtrooper Culture, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: When Poe Dameron and FN-2187 escape the Finalizer, Terex volunteers for the hunt.  If anyone's going to kick Dameron when he's down, it's going to be him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterstim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterstim/gifts).



Jakku is a riddle without a secret - an unknowable wasteland, with nothing to tell. There are those who think its deserts hide some great truth about the end of Empire, who believe that beneath its featureless rock and sandy ruin lie the slumbering bones of monsters (or heroes - whatever you like), the key to the downfall of the mighty, the great unanswered question central to the future of the struggle between justice and oppression (or between chaos and order - again, we really mustn't play favorites). But Terex knows: graveyards are dead, and there are no such things as ghosts. The sand flying up behind his speeder as he makes a sudden swerve between a couple towering dunes isn't hiding anything. Sand is sand. Ashes are ashes. The Empire is a corpse, and Jakku is nothing but its mute sarcophagus, and he would know - because he was there.

And now he's back again, because the First Order has started losing ships, here, too. Honestly - he can't say much for their ability to avoid the mistakes of their predecessors. He can't say much for that at _all_. 

_A shipwreck on Jakku,_ he'd mused, when the alert bulletin came skittering across his comms screen. _Maybe on the way back, I can stop and find you a tree on Endor._ But he'd leapt on the job all the same, even though it's a little hopeless, even though it makes him no better than a bounty hunter, really. All it took was seeing the attached holos stamped with names and biometric data and the great big scarlet _FUGITIVE_ furled out along the top, and he'd set course for Jakku. Luckily, he'd been relatively close by. It was a short jump, but long enough to appreciate all the little distortions and tics in the image that meant Poe Dameron hadn't stopped talking long enough for them to get a proper facial scan. The split in his lower lip was nice, too, glossy and a little swollen. There was a charming trickle of blood along his brow, mirroring his eternally disheveled curls. 

It's a good look for him, _knocked around._ Terex is looking forward to enhancing it even further.

He doesn't have to wait as long as he'd feared. Finding the TIE fighter's emergency beacon doesn't take all that long, and although it's clearly succumbed to a sink hole, there's another signal a couple klicks away, from en ejection seat. He follows it, and he finds the shreds of parachute and the banged-up metal frame. His heart leaps to see: it's empty. It would be such a shame finally to catch him, only to have him too dead to notice. From there, it's just a few hours of combing through the desolate surroundings, carefully marking off the territory he's already searched, hoping with every passing minute in Jakku's flaming dry heat that the man he finds won't be a fresh, sand-littered corpse, reassuring himself that even though Dameron will hear his speeder coming, he'll be in no condition at all to run -

But in the end, he needn't have worried about having to catch him. Suddenly, there he is, standing in the flats amidst a sweetly-shimmering mirage, waving his shirt in a violent, desperate arc above his head. Not running, no - quite literally flagging him down. Terex grins and turns for him, wishing there was a way to bottle the feeling of seeing your nemesis slump in relief at your approach. His helmet and goggles and the scarf covering his mouth mask his face almost completely; it's very possible that if he swung up beside him, Dameron would just climb right on.

But where would be the fun in _that?_ He slows, pulls up within a pace of him, and cuts the engines, letting one foot fall to the hard, radiating ground. He's still gripping the handles of his speeder, as though suspicious.

Dameron sags where he stands, bending to lean his hands on his knees. The effort of jumping up and down and waving his arms has clearly worn him out. He's parched, exhausted, dusty, and completely unarmed. "Hey, pal," he croaks, lifting his face enough to flash a brilliant smile - bloody and cracked as it may be. "You want to make some money? Kriffing stars." His shoulders roll back as he steels himself, and he straightens to standing again with a little whoop. "I could kiss you."

"Oh, that won't be necessary." Terex unhooks one of his water bottles from the clip beneath the seat, tugs the scarf away from his face, and drinks. 

Dameron's face couldn't drop any faster if someone slapped him. The recognition is immediate: his smile evaporates into rigid, closed-lipped anger. He says nothing, his nostrils a little flared from his still-labored breathing, and he's the perfect picture of stubbornness in defeat - furious, thwarted, utterly dashed, and (is it possible? can it be?) even a little bit _afraid_. It's delicious. "Hello, Poe," Terex says, not even trying to rein in the grin that strikes out across his face. He extends his water bottle to him, pure magnanimity. "You look thirsty."

Dameron doesn't miss a beat: he turns his head and somehow, despite his evident dehydration, manages to spit.

 _Oh, that hurts_ , Terex would say, except that it really does rankle a little - so he stows the bottle and pulls his rifle off his back, instead. "Have it your way," he sighs, and takes some small pleasure, at least, in watching him lifted off his feet when he shoots him point blank in the chest, collapsing under a wash of stunning blue.

* * *

They've already jumped and come out of hyperspace again, by the time his guest rejoins him, and have taken up an idle orbit around a barren, out-of-the-way moon no great distance away. There's a groan - a rather dramatic groan - followed by an equally impressive string of cursing, although it's nothing too outlandish, considering. Dameron's just come through an interrogation, a crash, a trek through the desert with no equipment, and a stun blow. He's going to have a headache.

Terex pours himself a drink.

This is not, sadly, the _Spike_ \- the single common passenger compartment aboard this little yacht is decidedly less spacious. It has its share of luxuries, though, and errs more on the side of sumptuous than otherwise. There are things he insists upon now, because he can, things he refuses to travel without. He wasn't born into luxury, or even comfort, but the way he sees it, that only means he has all the more time to make up for. He's done his stint with asceticism. It was tolerable, but, now that it's over, he finds he's far better suited to splendor. It turns out he quite _likes_ excellent burtalle - like this stuff, a marvelously heavy wooden-honey gold, thick like earth and smooth like fucking candy, that tastes of the hundred years it's spent sitting in the smoky darkness. After all: why not? A good day deserves a good flourish, and every day, now, is good, until it isn't. 

And today promises to be a real winner. His back is to Dameron as he pours, facing the well-stocked little galley, but it's not a large cabin. He can see him from the corner of his eye, tilting his head with a hiss and a grimace, testing his bonds where Terex has shackled both his wrists together to one arm of one of the cabin's three very comfortable chairs. Really, he oughtn't complain - how many prisoners can boast these kinds of accommodations? There's even a hassock hovering in front of him, and Terex doesn't stop him from extending his legs slowly, stiffly to rest his feet there, although his boots are beyond filthy. His hospitality is peerless.

"No wonder you and Grakkus got along," comes Dameron's hoarse and rasping voice. His chin tips up, and he squints at the decor. "This place looks like a Hutt's tomb."

Terex's smile doesn't quite curdle, but it tightens. He sorts it out before he turns around, glass in hand, to grin at his guest. "Look who's awake." And that's about all that can be said for him. His face is battered and his hairline bloody, although the skin there is largely unburned - judging by the sweat and blood gathered in his shirt (which Terex left where Dameron dropped it in the desert, not really relishing the idea of touching the thing), he likely used it to shield himself from the sun. His arms and a fair part of his chest haven't been so lucky, though. You might think a man who'd just been saved from frying to a crisp would be more grateful. There are bruises scattered around his torso, still rising to their full, livid color.

"I meant what I said." Dameron's staring straight at him, a blunt fatigue in his eyes that's a little - disappointing, actually. "About money. Hand me over to my friends, and we'll make it worth your while. Name your price." He coughs; swallows; clears his throat. It makes no difference at all. "I don't have time to negotiate."

Terex takes a long, slow sip, savoring the scent of the glass at his lips - savoring all of this. He could wish Dameron wasn't so quick to cut to the chase, but it _is_ nice to see him, for once, in the position of having to bargain. He crosses the cabin, and bends to hook one hand under Dameron's ankle and sweep his feet off the hassock, before taking a seat there himself. His elbows rest on his knees, and he leans forward, casual - curious. There was fear there before, he was almost sure of that - has it gone? Or is he just hiding it? "Do I look," he asks, spreading his hands, "like I need money?"

Dameron's eyes flicker to the side, regarding a glittering glasswork installation in one of the bulkheads with some skepticism. "You seem like you might not be _great_ at saving, honestly." 

_Cute._ "I haven't decided whether I'll pawn you off, at all. Maybe I'll just kill you."

That doesn't have the desired effect, but, to be perfectly fair, it _was_ a rather crude attempt. "Okay," Dameron says, flat. His eyes drop to the glass in Terex's hand, and his tongue slips out, just a fraction of a centimeter, as though in a subconscious (and entirely ineffective) attempt to wet his lips. "Can I have some water, first?"

Terex's smile is genuine, at that: broad and indulgent, pleased, as he always is, at the feeling that he's slipped into a foothold. "Of course." There's a pitcher stashed below the shelves of liquor; he stands to fetch it, and let it fill. When he returns he takes the same seat on that hassock, easing in toward him like they're old friends. He pours a splash of water - a couple of millileters - into the cup he's brought along, and watches, gratified, as clouds gather over Dameron's face. He holds the glass up in front of the other man's mouth, and the way it twitches at the corner, desire and anger and desperation - oh, it's _glorious._ "Why don't you tell me what happened."

"What do _you_ think?" Dameron snaps, his glare alternating at an increasingly unstable rate between the water glass and Terex's face. "Ask your friends what happened, why don't you."

Terex shrugs. He presses the glass closer, until the rim is resting against Dameron's lower lip, and he tips it carefully, as Dameron lifts his face and lets his mouth hang open and he can see the base, unthinking need hazing over his eyes - and then he shoves the glass almost upside down, spilling the water along Dameron's chin, where it runs off onto his bare chest. Dameron sputters, jerks forward, wrenches at the shackles on his wrist, and strangles back - something. A lance of pain from one of his injuries, maybe; maybe, just aggravation. Terex smiles, a tension easing between his shoulders that he'd hardly even realized he was carrying. _Doesn't feel good, does it._

He pours half a glass of water for himself, and drinks, his rare and precious burtalle forgotten on the table beside them.

Dameron scoffs and slumps back in his chair, but his show of nonchalant exasperation is delightfully paper-thin. "I told you," he growls. "I don't have time for games."

"Well, then." Slowly, with a perfect arch of his arm, Terex pours another measure of water - a little more, this time. A swallow or two. "Tell me about the Stormtrooper."

That gets his attention. Dameron's posturing dies; everything about him is suddenly guarded. But he's not - to say the least - a very guarded man. His attempt at a flat affect is a little like a child trying to walk in too-large shoes. He sucks the film of moisture off his lip; when it comes out of his mouth, the cut looks red and fresh, like it might start bleeding again. "You didn't find him," Dameron says, still looking at the glass.

"No. I didn't even find the TIE fighter. Well - I did. Under about ten meters of sand. I'm sure you'll understand, I couldn't hang around to dig it up." He holds up the glass - time to try again. "Did you abduct him?"

"What? No. Is that what they told you?" There's a spark of hot anger there, and something else - it burns through his expressionless facade in no time at all. "He helped me. He _helped_ me escape."

This time, Terex lets the water reach Dameron's mouth - no tricks, but that doesn't stop his prisoner from gulping it down like he's afraid it's going to sublimate right before his eyes. It takes a moment, for him to mull that over - _he helped me escape._ It's not that he doesn't believe it. Dameron practically reeks of honesty; and the First Order, whatever modifications it's made to the Imperial model of training and maintaining soldiers, has shown itself to bear so many of the same flaws, to buckle in so many of the same weak places as its spiritual antecedent. Men break, or run, or simply walk away - they do it all the time, and under every regime that's existed since the first handful of single-celled organisms banded together in a gang. It's just a matter of finding the right individual - a matter of luck, which Dameron clearly has in spades. If some outsider had walked up to _him_ , in his lower moments, with a bold smile and a promise of ...

Well. Never mind. "I didn't find him," he repeats. "But they will - eventually. If he's still alive." He pours another glass, and this time, Dameron seems to steel himself for a moment before he drinks - as though the thought of getting something down is suddenly less appealing. That reluctance doesn't last long. For water, he bares his throat like it's nothing, and the pulse stamping beneath his jaw would give away his eagerness even if he were really trying to hide it. "Is that what you're afraid of?" Terex asks, setting the glass aside for the moment so he can tend to his own drink. "That he didn't make it?"

"What?" Dameron's eyes are still pinned on the water pitcher.

"Why are you afraid?"

Dameron is silent for a beat - before he glances to the side, like he's expecting to find an answer. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"They're looking for your little droid, you know. Is that why? You really do rely too much on -"

But that's one lecture he won't get to give; the comms chime, and he knows who that's going to be. After pouring one more glass of water down Dameron's throat, leaving him coughing but uncomplaining, Terex goes to the holocomm set into the instrument bank not far from the galley. He waits until Dameron's little fit has subsided, and sets the field of vision a bit narrower than usual, just to be sure - he doesn't want his caller catching wind of his prize before he's good and ready.

And when he answers, there she is - in all her tiny, highly-polished glory. "Captain," he says with a smile, although he doesn't try very hard to look _thrilled_. "Always a pleasure."

"Agent Terex," Phasma bites out, curt and metallic. "You left without submitting your mission report."

"Yes, well." With deliberate leisure, he takes a sip of his drink. "It occurred to me, as I was down there looking for a shipwreck on Jakku, that I might as well be - looking for a shipwreck on Jakku." He gives her a sympathetic smile. "You understand. I decided it wasn't the best use of my time." Dameron's sitting perfectly still behind Phasma's shivering image; Terex wishes he could focus on him, but he's not chancing Phasma realizing he's got company.

"I do _not_ understand," she barks back. _Big surprise._ "You volunteered for this mission, and your dereliction has left us in a serious -"

"Oh, just give me a call if you don't find him in, say - call it three days, shall we? He's bound to turn up. He's a stubborn pain in the ass, believe me: he won't have the good manners to die on you."

There's a pause. He can feel the anger radiating off her, cold. "I highly doubt the Order will be availing itself of your services again, Agent Terex. You vastly overestimate the good you've done -"

"Now, I think that's -"

"- And the skills you have to offer. If it were up to _me_ ," and now she's practically spitting, "I'd say - we'd be well shot of you. Men like you do nothing but tarnish everything they touch."

"And we know how you do hate tarnish." He is, despite himself, getting a little hot under the collar. He's done better work for them than they deserve, and this constant sneering at his past like it's _any_ different from their own rubs him quite the wrong way. Only because he finds hypocrisy irritating, of course. They're miserable, upjumped brats, and any hope - any idle _suspicion_ he might have that they're destined for some greatness that's been lost to the Galaxy in the last few decades is just wishful thinking. He'd be well shot of _them._ "You know, I served under -"

"Grand Moff Randd, I know," she finishes for him, viciously bored. "And where is _he?_ "

She ends the call. 

He laughs. It's empty, all show, but that fills up a room as much as the real thing.

"Aw," Dameron says, suddenly much more himself - leaning in his chair with as much swagger as a man can have with his wrists bound off to the side, and practically smirking. "You're on probation. Maybe we _do_ have something in common." The little pause that slots in here, full of half a swallow, is something Terex might have missed before his anger sharpened his wits, but now he sees it for precisely what it is: Dameron's working up his nerve. "I'll put in a good word for you while they're trying to drag out my fingernails." He might as well just write it on the wall: _So, are you handing me over? I only ask because I'm absolutely petrified._

The kinder thing would be to tell him immediately. Terex stands there, and finishes his drink.

"You're not going back to them," he says, finally, hard and flat.

Dameron somehow manages not to double over with relief. "Is that right?"

"That's right." Terex smiles at him again, with rather more venom than good humor. "They're broke, anyway. Someone will pay for you, though. I know that. You're not short on friends." He wanders over, sliding his empty glass along the table, stopping beside Dameron's chair, and looking down. "The Resistance, for one. Hardly a credit mine, but I'm sure they'd come up with something. And then - you have family, don't you? Your father, out on Yavin IV? Kes - that's his name, isn't it?"

Dameron's face colors, lending an angry, rusty tone to that bruise deepening on his cheek. He goes very still, and his gaze is locked on Terex's with an unwavering severity most often encountered over the sight of a weapon. "Talk about my father again," he says, slow and even and leaden - no false armor this time, no, just raw, naked menace, "and see what happens."

The scoff bursts out of his mouth before he can stop it. With a roll of his eyes, Terex makes a vexed little wave of his hand - and then sinks it right into Dameron's hair and yanks, giving his head a sharp, dismissive wag. "You see - this is why I don't like you. For the love of - you're tied to a _chair_. I've never met anyone this intolerably smug in my _life_." He lets go of Dameron, who's vacillating somewhere between snarling and cringing in pain. "If no one coughs up for you, honestly, I'd pay a fortune just to punch you in the fucking nose."

As a matter of fact - yes, that _will_ make him feel better. He hauls back and hits him full in the face; it's not a sucker punch, he reasons, if someone's told you it's coming. There's a heavy _smack_ and a crunch and it's lights out - Dameron's head rolls to one side, his eyes falling closed, his body slumping slightly over to one side. His nose has been spared a direct hit, because it does make for awkward angles, beating people from above - but he'll take it.

"There," Terex says, with no one there to listen. He shakes his hand, his knuckles smarting, and goes to pour another drink. "See? You're already paying for yourself."

* * *

The truth is, Terex _doesn't_ know what he's going to do. Selling Dameron to the Resistance comes with its own risks, not least of which is getting stiffed. After a few drinks, he's ready to sleep on it. It has, after all, been a long day. And there's no rush: he's hidden, here. The Order's shown no signs of realizing Dameron's no longer on Jakku, and appear to be more interested in his astromech, anyway. Recognizing the moments in which one may safely cool one's heels is one of Terex's great strengths, one of the factors that helps him cross any given finish line at a fresh, unworried pace ahead of crowds of gasping strivers. This is one of those. He holds the upper hand. Deliberate consideration can only augment his advantage.

It's a short nap, though. When he first hears the clatter, clash, and startled gasp from across the cabin, his first instinct is that it's an escape attempt - but a glance is enough to put paid to that. Dameron has fallen on the floor in an awkward twist, slumped out of the chair with his wrists still bound above him, locked in an unnatural and painful bend. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, his chest heaving, and he's thrashing like a bird in a blind cage. If there was a shadow of fear on his face before, now it's full dark: his countenance is slack and given up to plain terror.

In his panic, he's far more liable to do himself harm than break free. Terex is on his feet in a second, striding across the room to seize him up under his arms. Dameron's not a light man - they're grappling for a few seconds, the balance of their weight shifting between them and threatening to topple them both. But Terex has the better leverage, and ultimately, with a heave that strains something in his back he just _knows_ he'll regret later, he has Dameron on his feet. He reaches down to release his shackles, their thumbprint trigger popping open for him, and immediately twists Dameron's hands behind his back to cuff them again there. It's a graceless maneuver, one arm just barely constraining Dameron's waist as he twists and hyperventilates. 

"Don't _fucking_ talk to me!" Dameron screams, suddenly, savage and terrified - at no one at all, or someone Terex can't see. His eyes are still fixed on nothing, staring right through the walls. "Get out!"

 _"Walk,"_ Terex barks in his ear, shoving his shoulder so hard Dameron can't help but stagger forward with that momentum. If his cargo has gone crazy, he's going to have to find a way to hide it, and that's _exactly_ what he needs, isn't it? Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registers that that would be a tragedy, too, but there's not much room right now for anything but immediate concerns. He marches Dameron rapidly, roughly back and forth along the sadly limited length of the cabin, until the ragged rhythm of his breathing has settled into something more natural, the simple, urgent gasping that comes from fatigue. Luckily, it doesn't take much to tire him out - to kick his body into last-ditch autopilot. When it seems he's not about to kill himself out of sheer frenzy, Terex shoves him up against a wall - face-flat against that shimmering glass composition, which is far less delicate than it looks.

Dameron is muttering something to himself; but it only sounds like cursing. Perhaps he was only having a terror, some kind of half-conscious nightmare. "I can hear him," he moans, his eyes screwed shut, his face lifted to the ceiling. "I can hear him -"

It's nonsense, garbled ramblings of a man ravaged by dehydration, massive stress, and a couple different head injuries. … Until it isn't. _I can hear him,_ what could that possibly mean? It's not that hard to imagine - far too easy, actually, when he pictures his descent to Jakku: smoke, spinning, screaming, one claustrophobic universe of unimaginable gravity contained to a cockpit. The sound of a man's life running out of him, a voice, somewhere, screaming _help him_ \- 

"You can't hear him," Terex says, more calmly than he feels. "He's dead."

That brings Dameron up short; his ribs still, and something steal over his face - not the despair Terex was expecting. Confusion. "What?"

"He's dead." FN-2187 is under unimaginable tons of sand. If he's lucky, he died on impact. Terex digs his fingers into the dip between Dameron's shoulder and his collar bone, and gives him a shake. "Don't wallow in it, you idiot." He takes half a step back, and spins him around so he can stare him down. "He wouldn't have lasted long, anyway. You should know better," he says, under a heavy layer of sarcasm, "than to take animals out of their natural habitat."

Dameron's staring at the deck between them - but after a moment, he looks up, and he's put on a reasonably respectable mask. "That's - his name was Finn. His name's Finn."

He can't roll his eyes hard enough; it's physically impossible. "Of _course_ you're a masochist."

That's not even worth contesting, apparently; Dameron's eyes just drift to the floor, unsteady and uncertain. Terex closes the distance between them a bit, shifting his weight forward onto one foot. His hand is still clamped into Dameron's shoulder, his forearm a hard bar across his chest.

"Think of it this way." Terex spares a hand to grip Dameron's chin and force his gaze back up in his direction. "You gave him a nice sending-off."

No smart retort to that, it seems. Dameron is still trying to find his balance. "He saved my life -"

"He had a lark. I'm sure he enjoyed it." They were always so few and far between - the deviations from the norm, the heady, jagged peaks that inevitably tended back toward stasis. He'd hated them, to be perfectly frank. He's always been a connoisseur of comfort. Where the rules are set and the stakes are known, a man can make a place for himself, and Terex has always liked knowing precisely where he stands, and precisely how far he has to turn to escape his position. In many ways, he's a man born for a _system_. He just started off in the wrong place. "But sooner rather than later, he'd have regretted it. Believe me. The high doesn't last long - they're into him far too deep, for that. He'd have turned on you. It was only a matter of time. You're both happier this way."

_"Happier -"_

"Yes," he insists, as straightforward as he's ever been, probably, with Dameron - it's an easy truth to tell, for him. "He's better off dead, than coping with what they'd do to him. Whether they ever found him again, or not." He taps his own head, right above his brow - a spot chosen on instinct, more than intent. "They did the damage years ago."

Realization dawns on Dameron's face for the second time today. This iteration is nowhere near as sweet. " _You_ got out," he breathes, after a moment. And Terex loves this, the weakness inherent in surprise, seeing Dameron open up before him in the profound vulnerability of just being completely, miserably _wrong_. 

And he likes looking down at him, too. It's not by much. But it's enough. "Yes, I did." His smile slips upward, indulgent and mechanical and aggressively condescending. "Do you think your friend was _anything_ like me?"

He expects Dameron to rage against him. He's looking forward to it: his eyes wander down to that angry-set mouth, full and impossibly hard, to his shoulders trembling with emotion, his chest and its mottled map of bruises. He _wants_ it.

Something alive flashes across Dameron's face - hope, or fear, he realizes he's having some trouble telling them apart. And before he can begin to decide what to do with it, Dameron wedges a foot between them, lunges - and kisses him. It's hard and clumsy, like a wild, swinging blow, hitting its target only because, at this distance, it would be difficult to miss. Terex jerks back, although not enough to drop his grip on his shoulder - Dameron's still pinned, more or less, to the wall. "What -"

Dameron jerks forward again, wild - not quite strong enough to break free and find his mouth again, but close. He digs his teeth into his lower lip in a gesture that must be quite charming, when it's not split and chapped and half blue. (It's charming enough when it _is_.) When his mouth falls open again, his breath rushes out in a beautiful approximation of desire. The desperation is very real, Terex has no doubt. But he's not quite stupid enough - drunk enough - self-absorbed enough to believe for a second it's directed toward anything but getting the hell out of here. "Take my cuffs off," Dameron pants at him, so gruff and glib you might almost think it wasn't a stratagem.

Well. That's fine. Terex is used to being underestimated, frankly. And, yes, he does take it personally, _very_ \- but he's not above taking advantage. Not in the least.

"No," he says - half a laugh. His hand swings down to grope right between Dameron's legs, forceful and unhesitating and supremely unapologetic. There's no sign of arousal. He presses in and kisses him, taking his injured lip between his teeth but not quite biting - just threatening, a careful, almost delicate pressure. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to start something you can't finish?" 

"Fuck no," Dameron growls, and you have to admire his persistence. He steps forward, peeling himself off the wall as he pries Terex's teeth off his lip with his tongue. "You want me to finish? _Take my cuffs off."_

"I'm sure I've never given you cause to think I'm _this_ stupid -"

"Don't you want a challenge?" Dameron's biting _him_ now; how did they get here? "Guys like you -"

"I have plenty of challenges, thank you." And he could conquer this one - right now. He could force him up against the wall again and fuck him, yes; he would like that. He could put a bolt in his head. He could rid the world of Poe Dameron forever. Games like the one they've been playing don't keep a cumulative tally - there's one shot, one score, at the end. He could win. Today.

What would he do tomorrow?

"Take my cuffs off," Dameron breathes against his ear.

He does. Of course he does.

And, of course, Dameron dives at once for the first weapon he can find - that empty glass - and throws it in Terex's face. It doesn't smash, but the impact is sufficiently distracting for the half second it takes for Dameron to scramble across the small cabin to the cockpit, to get himself behind the rifle slung on the bulkhead there. And then, just like that, the game's turned over. Dameron has possession. Honestly - it feels a little more exhilarating. The lead Terex had accumulated was becoming tediously insurmountable. This is better.

"So, I'm getting out of here," Dameron says, casual, resting the butt of the rifle on his shoulder and aiming it square at Terex's chest. " _You_ should really just - I don't know, man. Get a pet, or something." 

"You're not going to shoot me." He leans against the frame of the doorway to the cockpit, and every inch of him is easy with smug confidence. He's getting the hang of this, this thing they have. He likes it. "Really, give me a little credit."

The irritation he sees folding between Dameron's brows would be enough reward - his little muttered _ugh, fuck you_ would be an embarrassment of spoils - but the blinding blue instant between Dameron pulling the trigger and Terex knowing that he's not going to die - that he is, at worst, going to wake up in an escape pod with something humiliating written on his forehead - is the highest prize of all. There's _never_ any better reward than another round. 

And his is just a matter of time.


End file.
